


Shadows

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is set against a nebulous season one background.  Dad's somewhere unknown, Dean's bone-tired and weighed down knowing that Sam is counting down the minutes until he can leave.  Dean's a hell of a big brother, so he does Sam a favor and jumps ship first. What Dean doesn't know is that he's carrying a souvenir of his last hunt; it's hiding in his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sam&Dean Minibang 2013
> 
> This story has been made better by amber1960's gorgeous art and made more readable by firesign10 thank you my dear!  
> And as always and forever, thank you , toldthestars, for being my greatest cheerleader. Without you, I'd still be telling these stories strictly in my head.

**One**  
Sam came flying through the window and Dean had a second to be grateful that they were on the first floor, 'cause there was no way in hell he'd be fast enough to break Sam's fall—

The thing they were chasing came right through the window after Sam, bound and determined to get a piece of him apparently. The 'woman' turned her wrinkled face towards Dean when he shouted "Hey bitch!" and glared. Grey hair and pinched, disapproving lips shimmered for a moment, got thicker and younger and hairier—it was Dad was giving him the stink-eye before shimmering again and then some guy he remembered slightly from high school was leveling a furious glare at Dean—and then Sam was shoving the fucking lemon in the thing's mouth. It looked like Granny again, gnashing teeth longer than any sweet little old granny should have into the lemon. She tried to crawl away into the dark back yard but Dean snagged her unraveling bun, twisted her head up, and stabbed her in the throat with a thin-bladed silver knife. She shimmered again, but this time she only puffed away, like yellow-grey smoke. Dean blinked and stared at the massacred lemon, the only sign that the alp-thing had ever been there. 

_Lemons, what the hell._ It was still as funny as when Sam first suggested that _lemons_ might be the key to stopping something that was virtually unkillable. It looked like Sam was right. The only thing left of the malignant spirit was a gnawed up lemon and a little pile of yellow dust. If only all their hunts ended so neatly.

"Sam—you okay man?"

"Yeah, no, thanks for finally remembering I'm out on my ass here."

"Yeah, stop complaining, ya pansy. Gimme your hand."

Sam rolled upwards to sit and grabbed Dean's hand, pulling himself to his feet. "Fun, that," he said, as he brushed dirt and leaves and mashed flowers from wherever he could reach. "Better go tell them that fauxgranny won't be back to suck the life out of them anymore. I mean what the hell, dude? If you bury someone and they're suddenly sitting at the breakfast table, you get the hell outta Dodge, am I right?"

"Yeah…well, if you’re not trained for it, ain't exactly your fault if you don’t get how dead things suddenly walking is just bad news, period. Though…they were kind of stupid. In a nice way," Dean said, and Sam gave him an incredulous look. 

"Anyway," Dean said, and retrieved the knife from the ash pile on the ground. When he lifted the silver blade, Dean thought he caught a shimmer rising with it. He sneezed violently, three times in a row, and Sam whirled on him. 

"Don't get sick," he barked, like Dean had a fucking choice in the matter.

"What the fuck, dude?"

"You know what a shit you are when you're sick, Dean. I just wanna get out of town…."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean snapped. "I know, I know—you got things to do, places to be— _that aren't around me_ Dean thought.

=+=

Dean didn't give a flying fuck that he looked one short step from either crying or puking, or that he was sitting on his ass in the gravel of the parking lot, legs splayed out like a five-year old, with a nearly empty bottle of bottom shelf whiskey clutched in his hands. He had to be out here alone, he had thinking to do—private thinking. Dean let it play over and over in his mind; the image of Sam looking like going back to Stanford was what he deserved, what he'd earned, and Dean wasn't certain that his brother was wrong. "Fuck", he muttered and quietly thunked his head against Baby's passenger side door.

Dean knew he didn't have—the _hunting_ life—didn't have shit to offer a guy like Sam. Sam was…smart. No, he was a fucking genius. He was like…two of Dean's brains shoved together, with one of Dad's tacked on. Sam had plans. Had _always_ had plans, from the moment his tiny feet hit the ground, Sam had been a planner. Dean couldn't really fault the kid for it. Sam never wanted this life, not once he found out what it was really about. Dean couldn't sugarcoat it or distract Sam, not any more. Not for a long fucking time. He knew too, that if he hadn't hijacked Sam, the years would have rolled on and Dean would never have seen Sam again, much less heard his voice. 

On the list of people Sam wanted in his life, Dean knew he was hovering right around the bottom, one place above Dad who was probably…more like certainly…holding down the last spot. He sighed, kicked his heels wider and slumped lower against the Impala's side. 

And of course, there was that other reason why Sam wanted to leave. Dean sighed again, a long, louder, quavering exhale that left him feeling breathless but heavy. And a little sick. Because of that other reason Sam wanted to leave.

Dean never discussed it with Sam, never planned to. What the fuck, there was no way to do it, not without Sam yanking that Taurus out and blowing Dean the fuck away. Because Sam was genius smart and able to put a speck of dust, a wrinkled page—hell, a cough in the night—together like Sherlock Holmes and make a fuckin' pattern…yeah. Dean didn't have to say a word. Sam had to know. Fuck, there was no way Sam _didn't_ know. 

It was okay. Better that Sam knew, and Dean knew that he knew, and no one needed to talk about it. Not talking about it meant they could pretend it didn’t exist. Even though it weighed him down so fucking much that only hunting let Dean feel like he could move. That or fucking a string of strange, forever unknown women. Fucking. Fucking and booze and weed, the only good gifts man ever got. 

Dean staggered to his feet, cursing under his breath. The cold ground had leached all feeling out of his ass. He tossed the bottle out into the darkness and slouched back into the room. Sam looked up quickly. His eyes locked on Dean, wide and round the way they got when he knew he'd fucked up and wanted Dean to forgive him. For what, Dean had no clue—Sam had only told the truth, about wanting to cut out as soon as everything had been made right. Dean had gotten pissed off with no right to do so…he'd realized he was being an ass and apologized. It was the right thing to do. Sam hadn't done _anything_ wrong. Not when he left, not when he felt he had to cut his brother and his father out of his life, not when he'd done his best to slam the door on the hunting world. Sam was different. He wasn't like Dean and Dean shouldn't expect him to be. Sam had a right to live his own life. Only….

Dean turned away from Sam, rolled his neck and tried to dial the tension down. Hell, it was all his doing. He'd brought hunting crashing back into Sam's life, killed the one and only person Sam'd ever loved, burned all Sam's bridges behind him. So there it was. It was all on him. He could make it better. Sam was his little brother first before anything, and Dean was going to fix it. Save Sam and maybe…maybe save himself while doing it. 

Sam had stopped gawping at Dean while Dean was occupied with his own thoughts. His mouth was turned down, pale at the edges from pressing his lips so tightly together. His knuckles were pale too, forced against the edges of the table top. Dean sighed and Sam stood, shaking out his hands and suddenly flashing Dean a rueful smile. "Hey, you're back."

"That I am. Got anything?" Dean asked and Sam shrugged. 

"Looks like we're taking a short vacation, whether we want to or not," Sam said. 

"Hunh. Okay," Dean said, and tossed his jacket on the bed Sam wasn't using. Sam held up the TV remote and Dean nodded, so Sam stretched out on his bed and Dean stretched out on his, and they ended up watching Magnum PI until Sam drifted off to sleep. Dean was deep in thought while Tom Selleck ran all over Hawaii on the screen.

=+=

Dean knew what he was going to do. He just had to put his plan into motion.

Cash for the motel room—a month's rental. It was surprisingly little, even considering the dump it was. There were more than a few home businesses going on in doorways, back behind where the dumpsters huddled, but the Winchester boys had learned at their daddy's knee—if it wasn't about the job, keep moving. 

Dean spent a few days subtly shifting things from the Impala's trunk to a bag. He stuck with lightweight stuff, stuff he could easily hump on the road because he wasn't leaving his brother with no transportation. If the kid was going to Palo Alto, the kid was damn well going in style. This time Sam was going flush, with a killer set of wheels and nothing but good wishes riding with him. Dean told himself the hot, golf ball-sized lump in his throat was satisfaction.

=+=

If it had been an ordinary vacation, it would have been great. Sam slept, researched stuff just on GP and watched a lot of documentary TV, while Dean hustled in whatever little dive bars he found, keeping to the next county over to avoid drama. Most of what he won, he shoved under Baby's front seat. He wasn’t worried about Sam, not really. Winchesters always hit the ground rolling. Running. Something like it. He just wanted Sam to not have to hustle right out the gate. With some walking 'round money, it'd give Sam a little time, to check things out…meet people. Put his plan for the future into play.

The place they were in now might be a dump and rent mostly by the hour, but it had good water pressure and the hot lingered fairly well. He could even walk barefoot across the floor without cringing and wanting to peroxide his feet. Dean eased out to the main room, carefully shutting the door to keep the steam in the bathroom. Dripping, he walked around the room, collecting his shit.

He found a crunchy pair of jeans and a stinky t-shirt. And that was the sign that today was an excellent day for laundry. "Laundry day, Sam?"

Sam grunted in the affirmative, not sparing Dean a glance. Engrossed in whatever picture played out on the laptop screen. _Fine. Be that way,_ Dean thought. He kicked his duffle open. Hitched his slipping towel a little higher and pulled it a bit tighter before searching out what last wearable item he had in his bag. Sam breathed heavily, the kind of noise that meant Dean was annoying him to the very last nerve he possessed and Dean felt oddly hurt instead of annoyed. He wasn't even doing anything except trying to give Sam some space. "Asshole," he breathed. He bent and tugged out a t-shirt he hadn't worn in a while—he knew it was clean. There was a huge pink spot on the shoulder where bleach had sucked all the black out of the fabric. He leaned back, sniffed it and held it out. Bit small. Dean shrugged. It would do. He turned at a small noise behind him but Sam was still staring at the screen, a look of blank boredom on his face… he looked a little flushed. Dean walked past the AC on his way back to the bathroom and kicked it down a notch or two. It rattled valiantly, struggled to come up with cooler air. 

It was kind of hot in the room, no reason they should sweat.

=+=

They ate lunch at a chain restaurant a half block away. The food was bland, consisting mostly of salt and a wishy-washy BBQ sauce slathered over everything that was supposed to be meat, with sparse, dark-green of leaves of some kind hanging out on the edges of their plates. Sam poked them with a small frown, like he expected them to…dissolve or attack or something. Dean chewed a mouthful of steak that was edible because it was drenched in tenderizer. "So I went to the office this morning and paid up for a month. We need to stop flailing our way around the country and get some kind of game plan."

Sam looked surprised—Dean hadn't exactly segued into the conversation, but Sam nodded. "Okay, good idea, I guess."

Dean figured hashing out some kind of game plan would appeal to the list nerd inside Sam. Good distraction. They ended up splitting a blondie sundae because Sam wouldn’t keep his damn fork out of Dean's plate. 

Dean bitched all the way back to their room, which Sam seemed to accept with good grace and hell, he should, he'd scarfed up all the caramel sauce on the sundae plate. But then Sam tossed him a beer from the mini-fridge, and one beer became a few beers, and it wasn't long before Sam was sacked out hard on his bed, snoring the alcohol-soaked snores of the lightweight. 

Sam crashed so hard he didn't even flinch when Dean wiggled his boots off, got his jeans down, and rolled him so Dean could shove his giant ass under the covers. Dean sighed, patted his brother's thigh. "Sleep good, Sam-I-Am."

Dean finished shoving a few things in his bag, and stealthily snagged one of Sam's hoodies, one they'd picked up at the Goodwill a few states back. He rubbed the worn, velvety soft material through his hands. He was not scenting it for the smell of Sam because that would be…pathetic. He rolled it into a ball, and it suddenly occurred to Dean that thanks to him, Sam didn’t have anything that they hadn't picked up on the road in the last few months. Anything Sam might have brought with him, anything he loved—any clothes Dean might have recognized or coveted—had gone up in the flames that night. Except the bleached-out black t-shirt that Dean was wearing right now. Sam had been barely a teen when he'd snagged that tee from a thrift store. Every boy needed a skill— sleight of hand was the only reason they'd eaten some nights. Dean had exhibited a little sleight of hand himself and ganked it before Sam had taken what he'd thought were those magic, permanent steps away from his family. It was a stupid shirt and Sam wouldn't recognize it if his life depended on it—thank god. 

Dean crammed the hoodie into his bag and zipped it shut. He shoved the Colt down the back of his pants and clipped a lock on the bag—nothing that was gonna stop a serious thief but good enough to derail the opportunists. He took one last look at his brother; night time meant that he could look and look to his heart's content, and his eyes swept Sam from head to toe. 

Asleep, Sam looked like a kid. Sweet in a way he came close to daytimes…Dean wanted to touch him so bad, but even at the best of times, they didn’t touch the way they had when they were little. A small voice inside said _because Sam knows, he can tell. He's felt that you're fucked-up…_ a sick shudder worked its way through him. He loved Sam, loved his spirit, his good heart, but his love for Sam was as physical as it was spiritual. He wanted him, in every way possible. So. 

Distance, miles and miles of distance before Sam finally had enough and—and did something about it. 

Dean left the keys and his phone on the night stand and walked out.

 

Dean trailed his fingers along the length of his car until they slipped off the backend of the trunk and his hand fell to his side. He hitched his bag higher on his shoulder and started out to the roadway with a mile-eating trot, crossing to the opposite side. Sam was going to head towards the west coast, so Dean set off in the opposite direction.

 

It felt weird not being connected, Dean thought. He was sort of drowsing as he walked, feeling the thunk, thunk as his boots hit the blacktop, unconsciously counting as he walked along. There was no way to reach anyone, or for anyone to reach him and it scared him. Made him feel a bit free too, so maybe he got what Sam felt in a small way. 'Course Sam didn’t have that voice yammering away in the back of his mind, telling him what a tower of shit he was for not looking after his brother, making sure he was safe. "Shut up," he muttered. "Sam's a grown man; it's been a fucking long time since I wiped his damn nose for him."

 

He caught a ride with a guy named Chester not long after he walked out. He grinned and opened his mouth and at the guy's tired "Save it," Dean shut it again. A few hundred country music-filled miles later Dean said, "My last name's Winchester."

Chester gave him a look. "So?"

"Never mind," Dean said. They didn't talk much again until Chester dropped him at a truck stop, and Dean managed a series of rides after that. Only had to dislocate one guy's finger. Some assholes didn’t get that no meant always meant no, and not everyone thought that "cocksucking mouth" was a compliment. 

The best ride he caught was with a car-full of safety–challenged college kids heading back to school, the only clear thing they had on their minds was having a good time and damn the consequences. He sat in the back, squashed between warm, tight bodies, taking a hit of whatever they were passing around when it came his way. He felt safe enough to snag a nap when heat and his pleasantly spinning head coaxed him to it. 

They kicked him out, nice and politely, at a rest stop many safe hours away from Sam. On impulse, he leaned in and kissed the driver, and when she didn't flinch away, he made it count. He considered giving her the speech about strange men and letting them do stuff, but decided that one, he wasn't her dad and two, she was grown. He watched the car pull out and sighed. Youth. Totally wasted on the young. He hitched his duffle higher and grinned, not feeling particularly amused. He couldn't remember a time he'd ever felt _young_ like that. 

He grabbed a couple of burgers from the food court and wolfed them down while eyeballing the people coming and going. He managed to finagle a ride from a nice old guy heading to Ohio. Why not, Dean thought.

=+=

When Dean finally felt able to take a deep breath, he was just about out of Ohio, almost in Pennsylvania and that suited him. It was a neither here nor there kind of place.

It was cool, not freezing—fall was still fighting off summer's grip. With no sun blazing down and a really good pair of boots, walking wasn't torture but it wasn't a pleasure either. He was pretty well able to walk a day through, but he was damn grateful to end up in a town the size of a postage stamp. Good—the smaller, the easier to fake an ID. He strolled past a strip motel, _White Azaleas_ the sign read, a double row of ten rooms and an attached office. There was a mom and pop convenience store tacked on the end of the strip, and a bar. Dean dropped his bag as he looked at the bar. It looked tiny, like seriously small. But as long as they had cold beer—hell, wet beer, what the fuck. 

He stepped up to the office—the door was flanked by big plastic pots holding the skeletal remains of what might have been azaleas. The old woman sitting in the motel office gave him serious stink-eye, only slightly softened when she saw he had something approaching luggage and a healthy handful of cash. Dean took the room she offered him for a week upfront and watched her try and figure out what the hell he was doing in her town, but she didn't ask, didn't speak at all beyond telling him where the room was. He liked that, gave him hope that this was the kind of place he could lay low for a while, maybe for a month or two. He walked down the front of the strip, and a gust of suddenly chilly wind rushed into his collar. He shivered—maybe he'd even stay until spring, why not? If he kept going in the direction he was pointed, he'd end up at the ocean and winter had a tendency to be cold as fuck up this way. He could hunker down easy in a place like this. They'd done it before, in those rare times Dad decided to dig in somewhere between jobs. This time would be better though, this time he had no one to disappoint and no one's shit to screw up. 

Dean spent a day walking up and down the streets in town, checking out opportunities. There was an old-fashioned diner, the kind with steel panels on the outside, and it was open all day, there was a restaurant open after two, a bunch of odd little stores, the kind him and Dad ran across occasionally. He'd check them out once he got set up; it was crazy how sometimes those weird little shops had just what a hunter needed—or stuff that needed to be 'collected'. 

The town wasn't as small as he'd originally thought—it was big enough to support two garages, a couple of gas stations, and a pawn shop, along with the places to eat and the thrift stores—"antique stores". On the outskirts of the town, there was a chain discount store, naturally. Those things were like mold, he thought, they sprang up everywhere. He was disappointed there was no strip joint, not much of a night life at all from what he could see, just that little bar. He mused on the injustice that a town could have a giant-ass Walmart but only one bar and no place a man could truly unwind. What in the hell was the world coming to? He swung around and came back to the main street, headed back to the motel. Yeah, this was definitely not Dean Winchester's kind of town. He fingered the new ID in his pocket and sighed. But it was Dean Smith's kind of place, loser that he was.

He ended up tossing some jerk out of that little bar a couple of nights later, and figured he'd act on the owner's gratitude. Ended up with a job as bar back and that suited him just fine. Enough to pay the weekly rent on his room plus the necessaries—what more did he need? The people he worked with were okay, slow to warm up to him but he got that, there wasn't much to recommend him when he wasn't working at being charming. It didn't really fit in with what he knew when they started trying to get him to hang out. He didn't get why they tried including him in poker games, or tried getting him to join in their weird ass pool tourneys. He turned them away, again and again until it sunk in that it was too weird for him to constantly shoot them down, especially if he might be stuck there over the winter. So gradually he started saying yes, and they seemed to be happy about that. What the fuck, that was his motto. If it made them happy and convinced them to stop hounding him, fine. It made him look like a normal person and was good cover. In return, he did them all a favor and refrained from hustling the ever-lovin' shit out of them. Hard as it was to do.

So, the people were okay and he didn’t mind the job—it was a lot of work and kept him busy and his mind quiet. He hauled cases of booze and chased drinks and mopped and rinsed and prepped, sometimes he even helped the cook. He kept his ear open and found out the guy who nightly parked his ass at the end of the bar had a car lot and might have a car or two that he was willing to get rid of dirt cheap. The guy had a Chevelle sports coupe that Dean grabbed just because it was fucking cheap and ran okay, the guy claimed. It was ugly as shit, but it did run okay—even better with a little TLC. The guy was so impressed that Dean had a job at the lot whenever he wanted a little extra cash. He upgraded his room to a studio and bought a TV. _Moving up in the world, Dean,_ he told himself. 

Sure, he thought of Sam nearly every day and wondered what he was doing; sue him, it was a habit that was hard to break—it was hard-wired in his brain, _Take care of Sam, Sam comes first._ Dean wondered if Sam was relieved or pissed Dean had taken off. Didn’t matter really. Dean was…well, not happy, but he never expected to be. What he was, was not fucked up, and that counted for a lot. 

Guilt, though, guilt was a motherfucker. Made it hard for him to rest, knowing that he'd taken the easy way out and left before Sam bounced him. Still, Dean felt he had something to be proud of. He hadn't drowned himself in booze or tried to make a living bare-knuckle fighting or hooking. Hadn't fallen asleep at the wheel doing ninety. He hadn’t fucked himself into an STD or had to jump out any windows half-naked. It was almost like he was a respectable person working a real job, living in one place and making friends against his will. 

Life was weird.

=+=

Dean rolled up the sleeves on Sam's—the hoodie, and shoved a tray of glasses under the bar. He took the time to scope out these people who insisted that he needed to hang out with them, these new 'friends' who wouldn't leave him the fuck alone.

That one girl, Kathy, scared him a little bit. She was dark-skinned and dark-eyed with wild black hair—crazy gorgeous. He figured out why she scared him one night, watching her weave in and out of the tables and putting the scumbags down hard. She came stalking back to the bar, slammed a tray of drinks down on the bar, and jerked her chin up when he caught her eye. "What?" she snapped and it hit him—she reminded him a bit of Cassie. He just grinned and when she finally grinned back, he winked. She flipped him off. He liked her. She really was nice, even if she tended to treat Dean a little like he was broken and slightly stupid. 

There was Julia, who fluttered and flirted but was never open about herself. Basically, all he knew about her was her name and that she sang when she was drunk. Dean was fine with that. Far be it from him to nose about her business—unlike the curvy, brown-haired server, Lucinda, who kind of made a game out of hounding him about his past. She liked making up stories about who he'd been and what he'd done. Dean kind of liked some of his "past lives", especially the one where he ran _away_ from the circus so he could live a normal life. The guys mostly laughed at Luce and Dean, claiming it was her lame way of flirting and that Dean was even lamer for not getting it. 'The guys' being Carl, the bartender, an older guy—big, muscles on muscles with the sweet nature some big guys seemed to cultivate, and a tall, dark-haired boy, Miles, who was skinny as a stalk and complained about everything and who made Dean laugh his ass off. He hated the kid for it a little…just a little.

Things got weird the night Lucinda decided that Dean hadn't run away from the circus, that in fact he was on the run from a broken heart, like some cravat-wearing, moors-wandering asshole. As far as Luce was concerned, the fact that Dean didn’t say anything, just choked quietly into his beer, lent credence to the idea. So what it was a little true, he didn't need to explain himself to anyone.

"Some beautiful girl is waiting for you," Julia caroled, with a mojito in her hand, "she's got sun in her hair, and roses in her cheeks and she's waiting for you, forever, until you return." 

The last thing Sam was doing was wandering around waiting for Dean to show up. And Dean was ninety per cent sure that if he showed up on Sam's doorstep ever again, he'd be lucky to walk away in one piece. 

Lucinda waved her arms in wild enthusiasm for the idea of Dean's star-crossed love, sloshing her drink about. "That's it," she shouted. "She's waiting for her Deany to come back, wandering the seashore and waiting for her One. True. Love." She narrowed her eyes and pointed at Dean and Dean wondered why banshees couldn't show up when they'd be worthwhile. Meanwhile, Carl reached over and took her radioactive-colored drink away. "To spare you further embarrassment," he said. "No more fantasizing about Dean's girls."

Kathy punched her shoulder. "Besides, dude, what if he really has lost his girl? Do you think this is helping?"

Lucinda had the good grace to blush deeply, since it was her fault. "Oh Dean, I didn’t mean, I didn’t think—"

"It's okay," Dean said, eyeballing his drink and wondering if he should still drink it what with the having spat in it and all. "It's fine." Or maybe he could knock himself unconscious on the edge of the bar. Hanging with friends was so much fun—why hadn't he ever done it before? Oh, right, because he'd been lucky up 'til now.

Julia was mortified, Lucinda almost cried, Kathy mumbled under her breath and got Dean free fries. Carl shook his head and Miles…Miles looked at Dean speculatively. Dean shrugged. "No one feel bad, okay? I'm fine."

Miles smiled at him. "Okay, man. Okay."

Dean went home that night exhausted in spirit. He was tired of pushing Sam out, of making friends, of working like a regular Joe. He was tired of his dad running out on him and Sam both and maybe…maybe he should call Pastor Jim and check on his little brother. He brushed his teeth, gathered up his laundry and left it by the door. He stripped down to his boxers and wrapped Sam's hoodie around himself and fell into bed. 

He went to sleep thinking, _Some beautiful boy is waiting for you, sun in his hair and roses in his cheeks...._

_Dean was sitting at a desk in a narrow bedroom, bunk beds along one beige wall and closets on the other. It was hot, he was sitting at the desk shirtless, staring at a spill of playing cards…an unpleasant shiver went up his back, the feeling of *something* behind him…._

_He turned, and whuffed out a trapped breath—"Sam."_

_Sam was sitting cross-legged on the bottom bunk, all narrow hips and shoulders. He straightened and spread his thin legs wide, his tilted eyes dancing, a little grin on his heart-shaped face. "Dee-aan—"_

_"Sammy, I said no." Dean frowned, trying to look angry even as his mouth went dry and his heart beat tripled. Dad was still on the job, they had maybe three more days before he returned, the turn of the moon. And Sam was driving him crazy._

_"Deaaan…" Sam got off the bed, made a move like a little kid imagining what sexy was. Because no matter what Sam insisted, he was a little kid. And had no idea how sexy he was just…*standing* there, bare-chested in a too-big pair of Dean's old jeans, with his hair falling in his eyes. Fuck. Dean was hard just thinking about it. Sick fuck, perving over a kid—his kid brother. He was nauseous and turned on at once._

_"Sam, I'm not kidding." Dean stood and stomped towards the door—no door. He turned around and stomped off for the door—again no door. He was trapped in the room with his brother. His insane brother, his brother who'd come completely off the tracks sometime during the night. Or maybe—"Christo!"_

_Sam laughed. Sam's arms slid around his neck and Dean swore his heart stopped dead. Bony hips ground up against him and the_ *heat* _of Sam pressed against him, grinding his hard dick against Dean's leg. It kinda hurt except for the part where Sam stuttered like he was shocked, like he hadn't expected it to feel the way it did. Dean knew damn well what Sam was feeling—that hot sudden stab of lust that hit so hard he almost folded like a jackknife. His dick jumped and leaked in his shorts that quick, that hard…he lifted Sam off his feet and staggered into the wall, slamming Sam between sheetrock and muscle. He shifted and jerked Sam around until his dick was right there, a hot steel bar burning right into Dean. He rolled his hips, fucking into Sam, drinking up his gasps and moans. He wanted to drop Sam on the bed and yank the jeans right down his legs and get inside him…he fuckin' needed to get inside Sam right the fuck now…._

_Sam went bright red; sweat broke out in little clear beads on his lip. His tongue snaked out and swept off a drop and Dean lunged, smashed their mouths together. A bright star of pain lodged in Dean's chest, he thought his lip split but he didn't stop, didn't care because Sam was moaning and pushing at him, panting and practically slamming his hips against Dean's—"Sam, fuck, wait, stop—" but Sammy made a long, warbling, high-pitched sound and Dean felt Sam's dick jump, pressed so tight against him, felt Sam come._

Dean woke up with a shout, wet boxers, and his heart beating double-time, like he just did five miles uphill. Horror crashed over him in waves before he finally blinked fully awake. He'd had a dream—a nightmare—about Sam. Touching Sam, making him…something. Dean shook his head and rolled to his feet, uneasiness evaporating as he started the day.

 

After the weird morning, though, Dean found that Sam was even more of a presence in his head than he'd been, so he made the decision to call Pastor Jim. He would leave a message with him, tell him to let Sam know Dean was alive and gone and content to be gone, and wished Sam only the best in his new life. Maybe that would settle the uneasiness that was jumping him out of nowhere. 

In fact, he'd do it when he got back from the lake where he was supposedly going to have a great time. That's what the guys said anyway, before they kidnapped him out of the solitary comfort of his apartment and dragged him kicking and screaming into Carl's truck. More or less. Could be exaggerating the screaming and kicking part slightly. Anyway, Dean figured with enough beer, anything was a great time—or at least tolerable. 

When they got to the lake, Miles and Dean hauled the gear out of the back of the truck and Dean was relieved to see that it was mostly coolers and lawn chairs. Carl pulled a tackle box and a couple of rods from the back as well, and grinned at Dean's creased forehead and narrowed eyes. 

"Oh, don't worry about the little worms, Smith, we'll stick 'em on the hook for you," Carl said with a smirk and fuckin' Miles laughed his ass off.

Dean flipped him off. "Fuck you, Carl, and you too, Miles. Supposed to be my friend."

Carl laughed. "Don’t worry, we'll take care of you."

Miles just smiled a little to himself. "Dean will do just fine," he said, and headed off with a cooler to grab a spot for them lakeside. Dean caught himself staring at Miles, at his long, lean body, as he followed behind Carl. Dean shook himself and firmly vowed not to stare at the kid—he could do without the broken nose, thanks. He shivered watching Miles bounce around in just a flannel shirt when Dean had his hoodie zipped to the neck, wishing he'd brought a coat along as well. _Freak,_ he thought fondly.

=+=

They did the important things first—set up the lawn chairs, dragged Miles' pitiful excuse for a grill out and set it in the sand, tossed a few blankets down. Miles immediately staked out the lounge chair, and Dean grabbed the chair that reclined. He pulled his paperback out of the hoodie' s pocket and Miles pulled a reader out of his pocket and Carl called them both lazy fucks and headed to the lakeside alone. "Whatever," Dean shouted and Miles snorted.

"Good comeback, dude."

"Yeah, what…ever," Dean said and pretended that Dean Koontz was the most fascinating writer in the history of ever. Which served him right, he guessed, for getting his reading material out of the motel's lost and found box. He read a bit, watched Miles a bit, watched Carl whip his line out over the water. With the hoodie zipped and one of the blankets over his knees, it was a little chilly but not bad—Dean put the book down to unroll the sleeves right over his hands, Sam's gorilla arms working in Dean's favor.

Carl landed a few fish and Miles got elected to clean them, since Dean refused to even try and clean a fish. He couldn't explain that he wasn't really squeamish—no one can dig up a corpse or dig around inside a still warm body looking for clues and be squeamish. It was just…it was _fish._ It was gross. Those eyeballs….

Naturally Carl and Miles decided that Dean must be a tender and special flower and Dean was really tempted to share a few of his more colorful stories but he managed to control that impulse. Instead, he just drank Miles' beer with stupid lemon slices in it and took over the grill when Miles flung him a few hamburger patties and a pack of hotdogs. More Dean's speed, anyway. Fish was for the Sams of the world. Unless of course, that fish was batter-fried and laying on a couple of slices of bread with some hot sauce on the side.

They built up a fire and Carl and Miles fell into talking bar business, stuff that wasn't really Dean's concern, so he snagged another beer and sipped while they talked, ate a piece of fish, being careful about the bones. He licked the grease off his fingers, settled back in the lawn chair and pulled the hood over his head. He tightened the strings a bit until the soft cotton cradled his face and was off sleeping without even knowing it. 

When Dean woke up, he felt fucking fantastic. He can't remember the last time he'd slept so good. He lifted the mostly empty bottle of Miles' weird beer and shook it so the slice of lemon in it flipped around. Still thought it was a stupid idea but it didn't taste too bad after a few. 

He stretched and walked away from the sand, planning to walk the wooded path around the tiny lake. Miles got up and followed him. They passed Carl sprawled wide on a lawn chair and snoring. Miles grinned, snagged Dean's blanket and dropped it across Carl's legs. 

Miles was quiet as they walked but Dean was hyper-aware of him at his back, the heat and the smell of him. It rocked Dean, shook him to his core when he realized that what he wanted right at that moment was to throw Miles down and use his teeth and fingers and dick on him. Dean didn't really know what to do with that feeling. He'd been with a few guys, but not in any way other than to get off and get gone. It'd never been only Sam for Dean…just, no one made him _want_ it as much as Sam, made him wish he was allowed to touch, taste…until Miles anyway. Dean didn't know what to think about that at all. It scared him.

Miles moved past Dean on the narrow path that circled the lake and the side of his hip dragged across Dean's as he squeezed past. Dean's dick took that as a good time to remind him exactly how long it'd been since he'd touched anyone in that way. Miles didn't stop though, didn't seem to notice Dean's step falter and his breath hitch. After a minute, Dean followed…but kept a little distance between the two of them.

=+=

Dean was wiping glasses and Miles shouted a few orders across the bar, and Carl lined up shot glasses and mugs of beer. He shoved the tray towards Miles who winked at Dean. Dean grinned back.

The table Miles headed to was circled by strangers, a rowdy group who were having a damn good time; lot of laughing, flirting, and Miles flirted with everyone at the table, laughing himself. He set the tray down and did a move, throwing his head back and flipping his hair away from his face that made Dean nauseous. His stomach cramped and flipped and Dean just suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there. Miles turned and pointed at Dean and Dean jumped and felt his face go hot …one of the girls at the table waved and Miles just looked on with a little smile.

At the end of the night, Dean walked the girl to her hotel room. He gave her an edited version of Lucinda's heart-break story, just to soften her up a bit—he was pretty sure he was in there. In return, he got a bit of her story, how they were happy young people on a road trip during school break. Dean nodded like he knew what she was talking about—it was obvious the lot of them had no fucking idea what a road trip really was. He smiled at her anyway, adding the little downward, slightly sideways head-tilt that nailed it for him every time. 

This time was no different. In her bed, skin to skin, it felt amazing. It felt so fucking good to have that warmth against him, faintly damp skin on his. It felt good to have someone clutch at him like they needed him, moan his name like he was important—like he was something good to have. Dean reveled in the feeling, worked hard as he could to make sure she had a good time and hoping that maybe someday down the line, she'd think of him and he'd be a good memory. 

_The thing they were chasing leaped out the window after Sam, bound and determined to get a piece of him apparently. The old woman turned her head towards Dean when he shouted, "Hey bitch" and fixed Dean with a venomous glare. Her face shimmered—for a moment she looked like John and then she looked like Sam—_

_Dean shoved the lemon in the old woman's mouth, then stabbed her in the throat with the silver knife. She shimmered again, then puffed away like smoke. Dean thought he caught a shimmer rising with the ash—he sneezed-coughed-snorted and Sam whirled on him. "Don't get sick," he barked._

_"What?"_

_"You know what a shit you are when you're sick. I just wanna get out of town…."_

 

Dean woke up in the girl's bed with a clear memory of the dream he'd had, he'd dreamt of the last job Sam and he had worked together, the alp….

Weird, Dean thought. It was an odd dream to have, but not surprising that it involved Sam—lately Sam was constantly on his mind. The chick in the bed snuffled and Dean walked over to her. "Hey, hey, I gotta go," he whispered.

She opened one eye. "'Kay. S' a good time…thanks. You were sweet." 

Dean frowned. Sweet? 

She rubbed her face in the pillow and rolled to her other side. "Tell Sammy you still love her," she mumbled. "At least don’t moan her name, s'rude…" she finished up with a lady-like snore and Dean unfroze. What the fuck, she was full of crap; he hadn't called any name, let alone _Sam's,_ for Christ's sake….

=+=

He called Pastor Jim. Finally. In between washing glasses and switching out kegs, he found a minute to slip into Carl's office and make use of the phone. The phone rang and he forced himself to stay on the line and wait for Pastor Jim's wary 'hello'. "Hey, ah, Jim, it's Dean…"

"Dean, thank goodness. We've been looking for you. Sam's been worried sick—he says that—"

"Hey, I gotta go, someone's calling—but Sam's okay, right?"

"Yes, but Dean, you—"

"Seriously, Jim, gotta run. I'll call again, okay?" Dean hung up the phone and let himself imagine a world in which Sam's message was about how much Sam missed him and wanted him back, not how pissed off Sam was for Dean walking away first. 

Whatever. It was time to get back to work. He headed back out to the bar. Worked until he was too damn tired to think, and that night, fell into bed stinking of booze and grease.

_Sam walked towards him, tight jeans and an open shirt. Black chucks slid soundlessly over a tiled floor. His head was down, hair in his eyes. "Hey Dean." He lifted his head, just a bit, to stare through the fringe of hair…"Hey. Remember this? You were twenty. Ready to leave on your first hunt but Dad changed his mind. You were pissed you had to stay home with me. Until I decided to brave the e coli stew of that motel's swimming pool. Remember?"_

_Sam shoved his thumbs in the waist band of the tight jeans and suddenly he was wearing an old pair of Dean's jeans, hacked off at the knee and hanging so low that all Dean wanted was to drop to his knees and rub his nose, his mouth, all over the sparse, crisp hair curling up out of the waistband. He'd thought about it then, wanted to so much back then…Dean's knees cracked when he shifted, he was in front of Sam and Sam smelled so good. Dean drew his nose along the slight trail of hair outlining the way down into the suddenly open vee of the cut-offs, moaning quietly in his throat, followed with his open mouth. The hair gave to the pressure of his lips, tickling; he pressed down until the wet inside of his mouth dampened Sam's skin—Sam's thin hips bucked upwards and Dean thought for a moment he was going to come just from this, the taste of Sam's skin, the feel, the smell of him…the heat…._

_"Dean! What the fuck, what the fuck—"_

_The shout was from behind him, when he looked up, Sam's too-young face was distorted with surprise—and anger. Something grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked back—_

"Fuck! What the hell…" Dean woke with his own hand tangled in his hair, pain prickling all over his scalp, and a serious hard-on. He remembered Sam trying to get a blow-job out of him, really working at seducing him, and then Sam yelling, pissed as hell, but the two images didn't sync up—almost like there'd been two Sams. Dean huffed. The dream had been so vivid, it'd felt like a memory instead…minus the almost-blowjob. His dick throbbed at the thought, the way Sam had been so…sexual. There had been that time that Sam took a pair of his jeans without asking and whacked them off at the knee. And he'd looked so fucking hot Dean had to let the desecration of his favorite jeans go and just get the fuck out of the house…Dean came back to the present, hand grinding down on his still too-interested dick. "Fuck. I don’t need this shit now, damn it." He sighed and dragged himself out of bed and headed for a cold shower.

=+=

Miles invited Dean out for coffee, and Dean decided that he had nothing better to do and he might as well go, so he went. They ended up at just the kind of place Dean imagined Miles in, a storefront that was a combination of bookstore, junk shop, and café. It smelled weirdly of musty old paper and coffee. There were cookies and muffins too, so Dean figured it wasn't completely bad. He poked around the shelves while Miles bought them coffee and chocolate chip muffins. He found a slightly worn copy of Breakfast of Champions and pulled it. He might buy it; it'd give him something to do besides watch infomercials late at night.

They grabbed a table in the corner of the mostly empty café, and settled in. Miles told Dean how he'd chosen to come back to town after school instead of staying in the city, how Carl and he had plans for the bar, and that he was eventually going to be part owner with Carl. He told Dean how much he loved his town and his friends, how much he'd missed his family while he was gone. 

Dean nodded at all the right places, couldn't help thinking how Miles was a bit like Sam in reverse, running back to family instead of running away. Miles waved his arms a lot when he talked, and bounced—a lot—Dean noticed how often their knees brushed each other. Miles was a bit like Sam all in all, which was probably why Dean felt comfortable with him. Suddenly, Miles reached over and grabbed Dean's wrist to make a point of something in his conversation and heat flared all around where Miles' fingers touched. Dean firmly squashed the sharp jolt of want that the flare lit like an ugly and possibly poisonous bug. 

Miles looked up over Dean's shoulder and Dean jerked around to face whatever it was that startled Miles. Carl dropped down into the seat next to Dean, shooting him an odd look. "Hey, am I interrupting, so what, god, I'm tired. Go get me a coffee," he said to Miles and Miles called him an asshole but went. 

"Listen, Dean…you know Miles has a crush on you…." Carl said, and Dean gawped at Carl.

"Miles is gay?"

Carl's concerned look went cold and somewhat threatening so fast Dean's fingers twitched for the knife in his boot. "Is that going to be an issue, because if it is—"

Dean shook his head. "No, man, I don’t care. And Miles is a nice guy. But…why are you telling me this about him?"

Carl huffed. "Don't be a blockhead. Remember, sea-shore girl waiting for you? I don't want Miles hurt. He's not just a good guy, okay? He's family."

 _Sea-shore girl, what the fuck?_ Dean said, "Don’t worry." He wanted to say, _I might be a little gay myself. Maybe more than a little. Maybe half,'_ and then Dean wondered how you measured how gay you were, but Miles was back before Dean could say more than, "Don't worry." and Carl snatched the coffee out of Miles' hand, and drank it straight down. He closed his eyes and made noises like he hadn't had sex in months so naturally Dean had to mock that and Miles joined in, of course. 

On the way back to his studio Dean worried about what Carl had said. Miles liked him. Miles _liked_ him and he wasn't sure what he should do about that…let him down easy? Take a chance? Dean shook his head. Carl was worried about Miles, and he had a right to be. Either way, Dean was bad news for Miles.

 

_In his dream, he was being dragged and struggling not to be scalped as well…._

_The hand in his hair twisted him painfully around. "You bitch." Sam seemed twice the size he normally was and his eyes burned with fury. "You unfaithful bitch."_

_Dean hung in Sam's grip and wondered who the hell he was unfaithful to, dream logic overriding the fact that Sam shouldn't be able to drag him by his hair…hair that was as long as it had been at fourteen._

_"The mirror told me, that's when your eyes bled. Because you've always been unfaithful and you’ve never told the truth to anyone."_

_Dean felt like crying that it wasn't so, he'd told the truth plenty of times—thing about telling the truth, it always came back to kick you in the nuts._

_"Dean! That’s not me, Dean," Sam said, "I'd never treat you like that." Dean was being trailed by a frightened Sam, who begged him to see that it wasn't him tearing Dean's hair out by the roots, dragging him down a long narrow hallway and banging him into walls and door jambs...the Sam following was thin and insubstantial as a ghost, his face wrinkled up in worry._

_"What?" Dean jerked in Sam's grip. And then there was only one Sam, hands fisted at his side and that annoying 'concern/pissed-off' look on his face. Dean shoved Sam away. "Leave me alone, will you please just, leave me alone?"_

_"No, no, Dean, the alp—"_

Dean shuddered, his eyes fluttered open. Something was wrong. He flailed, barely able to move because something was holding him down, trapping him. It took him much longer than it should have to realize that Carl was shaking him. "Hey, you slept through your shift, Smith…whoa, fuck. You look like death warmed over, boy. Smell like it too."

"Thanks…fuck you…" Dean tried to get out of bed but just rolled to his side and threw up over the edge.

"Shit!" Carl danced backward, avoiding the acrid splash. "Come on, let's go." He wrestled Dean to his feet and parked him in the bathroom. He filled the tumbler sitting on the sink's edge with water. "Drink that," he said, "I'll be right back." 

He came back with a glass of fruit punch. "Gotta drink that too, the sugar'll help some. And get some juice made with actual fruit—what are you, five?" 

"Lay off, bastard," Dean mumbled and sipped miserably at the punch. At least he kept the liquids down…small mercies, he thought. He sipped the shit slowly and Carl watched critically, and Dean was suddenly hit with a terrible surge of nostalgia and want…he could practically smell Old Spice and leather, wood smoke and whiskey. He missed the old man harder than he had in years. He glanced at Carl, caught the way Carl regarded him, the edges of his look colored with fondness. Dean cursed to himself and turned his head—his eyes pricked and stung and his throat burned, just for a second. He handed the empty glass back to Carl. "Thanks."

"Man…I'm worried here. You've been looking worse and worse lately. The girls are about off their heads, worrying too."

"I just…I don't know. Maybe it's the flu. Something."

=+=

=+=

"Dean..." his name was whispered, soft and quiet and Dean turned slowly. Sam was sitting on his bed, wearing…sleep pants, with ducks on them. Dean smiled. He remembered getting them for Sam and Sam bitching about the stupid ducks—but wearing them every night anyway, until Dean had to wrestle them off of Sam to wash them.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this…" Sam said, and sounded pleased. He held out his hand and this time there was something in his eyes, warm and…happy to see Dean. The look of open affection on Sam's face was a world of difference from the usual hard, greedy stare he got. Definitely an improvement. Dean took Sam's hand and was yanked off his feet onto the bed, but instead of being immediately rolled to his stomach, or Sam's big hands spreading his legs wide, Sam just laid his head on Dean's chest. "I miss you, Dean."

Dean looked around the room. He didn't remember this…not Sam saying that, not the room. 

"Dean, you should have said," Sam murmured and raised his head. The touch of his lips to Dean's was soft and tentative. He cupped Dean's cheek. "I always felt this way, but I was so afraid—you scared me. You were always so—contained. So in control of everything."

"Me?" Dean snorted. "I never had control of a damn thing. I followed Dad, I followed you…the only time I had any kind of control was in bed with strangers." He tried to laugh but Sam made a displeased sound and wrapped his arms around Dean, kissed along his jaw, lipped his earlobe. Dean shivered. It was so tender, and he was used to being with Sam involving pain with the pleasure. But this…Sam slid his hand slowly up Dean's chest, his fingers pressing at some points and gliding over others. 

"Can I do this?" he asked and slip the tips of his fingers into Dean's boxers, his fingers brushing against Dean's dick—he only registered being hard when Sam's fingers slipped in the slick welling up out of him. This felt…so much better. Dean's dick jerked in Sam's light grip and Sam moaned. "This is what I wanted, before, why I had to leave. And then there was Jess and I thought, 'thank, god I'm saved'—"

Dean tried to jerk away but Sam pressed the whole long length of himself against Dean, and Dean felt how hard Sam was. Sam rolled his hips against Dean and said, "No, I wasn't. I loved her—" his voice caught and Dean nodded. He knew how much Sam loved the girl. "But," Sam went on, "never as much as you. I wanted that—so much, but never as much as I wanted you."

Of course, Dean shivered. The dream was odd and now it was coming apart at the seams, there was no way Sam loved him, let alone more than Jess, but damn, it felt good…Sam's mouth was on his, hot and wet, the rock hard length of him was skating across Dean's suddenly naked abs and Sam's breath burst out between them in tiny groans and barely formed words, "need, want Dean"—he gasped Dean's name again and the hot, wet flood Sam slid his dick through made Dean—

 

wake up, and he was coming as he woke. He shuddered though the aftershocks, groaning slightly. It felt so damn good—in fact, _he_ felt good. For once, he wasn't shaking because he needed to hork up the contents of his gut…he blinked, and frowned. There was something, something different about that dream—and there was the faintest tickle at the back of his mind, something about the difference in dreams, in the feeling of them…he struggled harder towards the faint feeling, but it evaporated. He shrugged. If it really was important, it'd come back to him. In the meantime, the mess in his boxers was getting cold and icky, and his sheets could use changing, and laundry day was way overdue, so…time to get on it.

Dean sat in the Laundromat, steadfastly keeping his mind blank. He leafed through the paperback in his hand until he found the page he'd left off on, and went back to reading. When the laundry was done, he dumped the clothes at his room, cataloged the meager stuff he had in the fridge. Went off to the store with a list. Came back and made a pretty good sandwich, chased it with a coke. He spent the day doing normal, everyday stuff, and ended up at the bar around sundown, even though he was off for the evening. He let Julia buy him a beer, and let Carl buy him a shot. Round about his third beer, all the good feeling he'd woken up with that morning had pretty much worn off and he was feeling his usual combination of exhausted and flu-ish. 

He went back to the studio, gulped down a couple of aspirin, drank a lot of water. He wandered around the tiny space feeling half-awake, joints aching, stomach fluttering…eventually fell into bed. 

 

_"Oh fuck…"_

_Sam smiled. "Sure, getting to that. You like this, don’t you." Sam had his fingers in Dean's ass, moving them slowly back and forth, making Dean feel everything: the stretch of muscle around Sam's knuckles; the slight burn when Sam spread his fingers; the tingling, rushing sensation when he brushed them over that spot inside that set off sparks. "Tell me, c'mon, tell me what you're feeling…"_

_"Feel—feels good," Dean gasped, and came. He heard the little grunt Sam made when his muscles tightened, felt Sam's dick slide against the inside of his thigh, the way it left a warm wet trail. Heard Sam hiss "Such a good boy," as he swirled fingers through the mess on Dean's stomach._

_"We can do this," Sam said. "We can do this every night, if you let me." Sam's eyes were greener than they were outside of dreams, and colder._

_Dean shuddered. "But why…why are you here?"_

_"I'm here for you, I'm what you want the most; I'm what you need the most."_

_Dean nodded like he understood, but it wasn't true….this wasn't Sam. Still, it wasn't like it would ever be, and it wasn't like Dean had anything else so…he let go and let the dream Sam take over. He lost himself in feeling, Sam's mouth at his neck, Sam's thumb riding the sensitive rim of his hole; Dean felt it slide around in the slick Sam had worked inside. He took his thumb away and Sam's dick slid into Dean just as easily, smooth, steady and deep…"You're so hot, so smooth, like silk inside…."_

_"Dean!" Sam blew right through the wall of Dean's motel room, thin as smoke, but the Sam in the bed didn't seem to know, or didn't care—the Sam in the bed was holding him down with wide, hot, heavy hands, fucking him steady and hard, relentless—Dean wanted to pay attention to the Sam above him, not the one standing at the bedside with a face the color of chalk and his teeth bared in horror. The Sam in the bed slid deep into him, like he belonged, and it felt so good Dean couldn't hold back a groan, and the loud, pissy, disgusted Sam not in the bed threw up—_

_Dean's dream exploded like a gunshot through a stained-glass window._

 

 

Dean dragged his sweaty, clammy body into the bathroom and threw up himself. He showered and tried to look as presentable as possible. Chugged grape juice and chewed his way through a handful of saltines and aspirin. At work, no one said much, but Dean felt eyes on him all night, and the weight of other people's worry. 

At one point in the night, Dean fell asleep leaning against a stack of boxes—no more than a handful of minutes but Sam was there, shouting in his face, distorted words sounding like a call from underwater. Dean jerked awake with a muffled shout, Sam's face in his mind and the only clear words he'd spoken already breaking up like smoke. _"I'm coming for you, freak. Hear me? I'm coming to get you."_

Dean shuddered. The threat in those words made his gut cramp, the hatred in them…why couldn't it be enough for Sam to be free of him? Did Sam want him to pay for what he'd done, what Dad and he'd done to Sam? Dean shook his head. No—dreams. That's all it was, his subconscious mind fucking with him in his sleep. He didn't have to take Psych 101 to know that.

Still, he was off-center all night, between the non-flu flu and the weird, head-fucking dreams. He was only too happy to take Miles up on his offer of dinner when he asked. Carl stared at them from the bar, looking none too happy, and Dean wasn't sure if Carl was concerned because Dean looked like shit, or if Carl was concerned because Dean was going home alone with Miles. If that's what was worrying him, then Carl should get a fucking grip—not like he was going to attack Miles, for god's sake. For one, he didn't have the strength…Dean gave Carl a pointed look back and left with Miles.

=+=

Miles made dinner and even had dessert after—home-made apple pie, because Miles knew Dean or at least his sweet tooth, and they talked comfortably a bit until finally, Miles came to the point of the evening.

"Are you…is there anything you need? Help with? Are you…sick? Because it doesn't matter. We like you, Dean, all of us do, and we want to help you with—anything you might need."

Dean peered at Miles, honestly confused for a second, before the light bulb went on. "Oh—no, no I'm not. I'm not sick. Not like…Miles." Dean felt warmth well up inside him. "I'm fine, just okay, maybe a little fucked head-wise but I'm good. Just. Not sleeping well. That's all. Swear."

Miles eased back into his seat. "Are you sure—I mean, good, I was so—we were all so worried." 

Miles smiled and Dean's heart broke. Fucking Carl with his fucking guilt trips. "I like that you interrogate people with meat loaf and pie, dude. Good technique. Soften 'em up good; go in for the kill…."

Miles blushed a violent red. "Ha, I'm not…well, that's not why I fed you but I was hoping that you'd be impressed enough with my pie…" Miles stared at Dean. "Am I reading this wrong? And if I am, I apologize profusely."

Dean blinked and wondered how anyone managed the minefield that dealing with other people _constantly_ was. "Miles…I'm really flattered…."

"But…" Mile's pretty flush died away, leaving him pale. He dropped his eyes and nodded. "But you don’t swing that way, got it." He lifted his head and looked Dean in the eye. "Still, it's been a good evening. Thanks for coming over."

Dean couldn't leave it like that; he needed to give Miles…something. He said, "You are a _great_ guy, Miles. A really good guy. But Lu's kind of right. There is someone. I don't think…they don’t feel the way I do, but I just can't stop…hoping." He shrugged, and felt like a fool—even worse at the way Miles' smiled at him—soft and sweet and heart-broken. Dean knew just how Miles felt.

"Oh yeah. Lucinda's wind-in-her-hair, roses-in-her-cheeks girl," Miles said, "the girl who broke your heart."

Dean fidgeted with his fork, turned his napkin into a crippled origami swan. Coughed. "Not girl." 

"Oh. _Oh!_ But…that time, with the girl…."

'You know about that? Stalker." He grinned and Miles laughed a little. 

"I'm—was—you fascinate me." Miles shrugged. 

"Hm. Well, I'm not so much a ruler as I am a James Dean kind of guy. Not going around with one hand tied, you know what I mean?"

Miles peered at Dean and said, "I think so. Maybe? You mean not so much Kinsey zero?"

"Whatever. Geek." 

Miles laughed, and Dean felt immediately turned-on—and unfaithful. Which was stupid, because he didn't have anyone…except some nebulous, half-dreaming hope that Sam would someday decide society and the world at large could kiss his ass and choose Dean. And that creepy Sam in his dreams, the one he had stupendous sex with. Dean tried to lift his glass to his lips but his hand shook violently. Damn. He was in some kind of trouble….

 

_He went to sleep that night, and woke on a grassy field. He rose quickly—the grasses were whipping in the wind of a breaking storm. There was something coming through the field, something huge and dark, pushing storm clouds in front of it and making the grass flatten as it came. It was Sam, and Sam was pissed. "I'm coming for you; when I get there, I'm going to kill you."_

_Dean felt his heart break right down the middle, the pain was incredible. For a moment he thought he was really having a heart attack. He blinked and Sam was in front of him, coming at him with arms wide—Sam's face was pale, his features twisted in disgust. "You freak, you disgusting thing—"_

_Dean felt his whole being yanked backwards, he tumbled onto a bed. He was in a motel, some generic place like the millions of places they'd stayed._

_Sam was panting, gasped, "You got away okay?" Dean nodded and Sam nodded too. "Good. That was close—almost got me," but he wouldn’t explain what he meant. He slid into bed next to Dean, hot skin against hot skin. "Where have you been? I missed you, missed this…" Dean slid under the weight of all that—not love, not even close—lust. Want. Sam wanted him. Dean could tell, a hot, devouring kind of want that wiggled into Dean's soul and filled it with a stomach-churning kind of need. Just the way he knew it would be. When Sam looked at him, all Dean saw was desire, possessive and deep but nothing like love. Of course._

Dean crawled out of sleep, sick, sweating, and hating himself. That's what this shit was, these dreams. This was his mind trying to balance his knowledge of Sam's disgust with his need for Sam. Clever. He let Sam do whatever he wanted to him in the dreams and when he woke, he ached in a million places but that was okay—he deserved to hurt some. He didn’t make it to the bathroom but that was okay too, because he'd put the garbage can right next to the bed. It took him a few hours to be able to get out of bed.

He worked his shift, and drank coffee, coffee, coffee until Kathy told him he had the bladder of a seventy year old and Carl asked him if he knew coffee was a diuretic. Dean wondered how he'd gone away for solitude and ended up in a tiny village full of Yiayias. 

He drank coffee at night, and took caffeine pills until his heart fluttered and banged in his chest like drunken crows. He did endless rounds of PT and tried to rearrange the furniture but—just a studio—so he dug out his duffle bag. He fished out his knives and a whetstone and oil and set them up on the table, leaned down to toe off his shoes and passed out, right into velvety black sleep, so good, so warm and smooth and

 

_He blinked and Sam was sitting across from him. His face was smooth, but his eyes were troubled. He looked around the room. "Is this real?"_

_"What? Well, no, I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming you. Are you going to kill me now?"_

_Sam's head jerked towards him—"No! What the hell?" He stood and walked past Dean, who tried not to flinch, and threw open the closed curtains. The sun blazed in the windows, a hot, bright white light like the end of the world. "White Acres," he muttered._

_"No, White Azaleas," Dean corrected and Sam smiled._

_"Gotcha."_

Dean woke, sweating, cursing. The AC died in the night, naturally.

He rolled to his side and it felt so much like he was falling through space that he was surprised to land on the mattress. He felt woozy and way too hot. He blinked a few times, his eyelids fluttered and fell, and Sam was back. 

_Sam was crouched in the middle of the bed. He looked stressed. He blinked and swallowed unsteadily, yanked at the ends of his hair, picked at the sheets. He was naked and drenched in sweat…when Dean came close, Sam grabbed at him. Locked his fingers around Dean's wrist and at first Dean pulled away, but then he sank down on the bed and let Sam grind the little bones in his wrist together._

_Sam asked, "Do you want me here with you, or not? I can be, just tell me you want me with you. That's all you have to do and it will be just like you've always wanted, Dean. Anything you want, all you have to do is ask me." Sam's eyes glittered with greed. He licked his lips and stared at Dean, like he wasn't seeing his brother, he was seeing a thing, a delicious thing…"Dean, come on…."_

_Dean pulled free of Sam's grip. He walked around the room, the room that looked like the room they'd shared that time right before Sam left, that little house in Washington. He turned to Sam and said, "Yeah. Come. I want you."_

_Sam smiled, a sly, wide, smirk of satisfaction. "Okay. Okay, good. Look for me. You'll see me, touch me…can't wait."_

 

Dean came to work that night and for once felt less like shit. He took out a tray of limes and lemons and cut them into slices, slice, slice, watching the knife slide through the bright fruit. He lifted his head and in the deeply shadowed corner, watching him, was Sam. A pinched, unhappy look twisted his face, but when he saw Dean looking, it shifted into a look of deep longing and hunger—hunger most of all. Dean dropped the knife, and his heard skipped a beat as the knife clattered to the floor. He'd known, but he kind of hadn't known…but there he was, Sam. Big as life and twice as gorgeous. Come for him…for Dean. Everyone stopped and watched as he left everything and went to Sam. "You're here."

Sam nodded, silent, and Dean nodded back and turned back to the bar. There was nothing left to say. Sam was there, and it was what it was—whatever happened next was up to Dean. 

Miles caught Dean's arm when he went into the back. "That's him?" Dean didn't say anything. Miles repeated, "That's him? Dean…he's seriously bad news."

Dean snapped out of his funk and peered at Miles. "What makes you say that?"

Miles stepped back. "I'm sorry, I know you're hung up on the guy—love the guy," he amended at Dean's look. "But I. I don't think he's good for you."

Dean tilted his head. "But you are, is that what you're saying?" Dean winced—that had come out nasty, not in the least the way he wanted it too. He heard Sam chuckling in the shadowed corner. 

Miles ignored Dean's tone and said, "Dean, if I thought I had a snowball's chance in hell with you, I'd be there. I'd be right there," Miles said fiercely. "But I don’t and I'm not fooling myself, but if _that's_ the guy…" he shook his head. 

Dean laid his hand on Mile's arm. "Hey—hey, don’t worry. I can look after myself. Promise."

=+=

Dean left with Sam and they drove out towards the motel he'd been calling home, White Azaleas. Pretty name for what was basically a dump. Sam grabbed Dean's thigh as they drove. "You'll be happy again Dean. Now that I'm here, you'll be happy. And I can make things better between us. Everything that bothered you, I can fix."

Impulse had Dean passing the motel by, driving on towards the lake he'd gone to with Miles and Carl…an afternoon that seemed so distant now, now that he had Sam sitting next to him. He eased the Chevelle into a parking spot, and opened the door. He sat on the Chevelle's hood, warm metal under his ass practically a Pavlovian goad to speak, especially with the bulk of his brother on the opposite side. 

"How long?" Dean asked "How long will you be here?" Even with the trees around them breaking up the moonlight and throwing shadows everywhere, he could see the glitter of Sam's eyes, his teeth gleaming in the low light…beautiful, Sam was, like a tiger….

"You know, Dean, you know—for the rest of your life. Okay? Forever."

Dean stared up into the night sky, and nodded. "Yeah. So…where's the Impala?" He turned to face Sam and light illuminated Sam's whole face and he looked puzzled, and for the slightest, most infinitesimal second, he shimmered, but that was all the confirmation Dean needed. He had a pocket full of lemons, and exceptional aim. Sam went down, gargling on a lemon slice, clawed fingers ripping deep furrows in his own throat.

Dean stood over the convulsing alp and said, "In my dreams Sam kept saying he was coming for me, coming to kill the freak. I thought he meant me. But that wasn't Sam, that was me—my own self, trying to warn me about what was happening, trying to get me to protect myself." The alp tried to howl around the lemon caught in its needle teeth, tried to get to its feet but Dean dropped to his knees, and pulled a long, thin-bladed silver knife out of the side of his boot. Without hesitating, he shoved the blade through the throat that looked like Sam's, jerked back as the light in Sam's hazel eyes dulled, rolled back into his head. 

And then…and then there was nothing. The alp shimmered into nothing, leaving behind a scant pile of yellow ash. Dean dug down in his coat pocket, fingers closing over a thin, silver flask of holy water, just enough to wet down the pile and this time, this time _all_ the ash dissolved, and it was like Sam—like the _alp—_ had never been there.

Dean went back to the motel room, and went to bed without even kicking his boots off, dropped down into dreamless sleep. The next morning he showered and tried to imagine that the last few weeks had been one long nightmare he was just now waking up from. He took the carton of juice out of the tiny fridge and smiled. At least someone cared, some people cared about him and how he was. Maybe if he could let go of everything, take a chance on someone who really wanted him…the smile died. Yeah. They cared about a guy who didn’t exist, some Dean Smith guy. He shoved the carton back in the fridge and shut the door. Outside, an engine rumbled and rattled to a stop and the sound was so familiar he shook. He had it bad, it was too early to be contemplating a good stiff drink, but hey—who decided what time was the right time? 

The lock on his door jiggled and he almost dove for the bed and his gun but he stopped himself. "Who is it?"

The door crashed open. "Your brother, you fucking idiot."

Dean cursed himself for not going for the gun and its silver bullets, for leaving the blade in the bathroom. Fucking alp, _how_ ….?

"It's _me,_ Dean. I've fucking come to save your fucking ass from that fucking alp, you asshole."

Sam, if it was Sam, scared the hell out of Dean—a pissed off Sam was no joke. Which was why Dean was horrified to find himself one breath away from giggling. Sometimes his damn brain misfired and Sammy deep in cursing mode always made him laugh anyway…and then he lost the fight, suicidal giggles bubbled out. Sam whipped his Taurus up and Dean stared down the barrel, right into Sam's eyes. All doubt evaporated. This was his brother, all right—one hundred per cent Sam. And he had a steady bead on Dean's forehead.

"Dean? Where's the salt? Why aren't you armed?" Sam's voice was gruff, demanding, but there was a tiny uncertain note in it, something Dean thought only he would have picked up on…"What the fuck is so funny, you dick?"

Torn between a tiny dash of hurt that Sam could draw on him so easily, steadily, and pride at how well they'd done raising Sam, he said, "Whoa, hold on there, tiger…look, just look in my coat pocket, right there on the back of the chair…" 

Sam kept an eye on Dean and rummaged around in the coat's pocket, slowly pulled out a mangled half of lemon. "It's the alp—that's why you're here, right?" Dean said softly, trying his best to project calm. "The alp's gone, dude. No saving required."

"Wow, I thought…I don’t know. I wasn't sure if maybe you…"

"Wait, how did you know about—no, how did you _find_ me—" a flash of dream startled Dean: _"White Acres," Sam muttered and "No, White Azaleas," Dean corrected, and Sam smiled._ "Oh," he said. "Oh…" he gasped again as Sam turned a frightening shade of red. "Oh god…" 

Sam's steady grip wobbled, and Dean's entire insides froze solid, stealing his ability to breathe. "You _did_ see." Sam in his dreams, this Sam, the _real_ Sam, had been in Dean's dream. Sam knew _everything…_ but. "How?"

"There was a shaman, and some stuff, white path root…dream walker stuff…" The gun wobbled a bit more, Sam finally dropped his hand. "Yeah I saw. You were…"

Dean shrugged and tried to act like he didn't want to curl up and die. "Okay, so…we can't just not talk about, I got it. Ah. You hungry?"

Sam stared at Dean like he'd just suggested they set their heads on fire and run naked down Main Street. His mouth dropped open but not a word came out. Dean walked past Sam, figuring he'd follow and sure enough, Sam trailed him to the diner. This wasn't a dinner he was looking forward to but it was a way to buy time and…there really was only one possible way for this to end. Badly. But he'd send Sam off fed at least. He always took care of Sam, best he could.

=+=

They ate—it was a nearly silent and hideously uncomfortable dinner that seemed to last a lifetime. Then Sam trailed Dean to the bar to pick up his check.

Carl passed Dean a beer, and gave Sam a coke when he asked for one. Carl told Dean to sit, and he'd be with him in a second—eyed Sam with a look that would have turned him to stone if he hadn't developed immunity to killer glares, thanks to their dad. Still, Dean could see Sam wilt just a little under the force of Carl's eyes—and confusion as to why he was on the receiving end of it. Dean didn't bother to explain or to introduce his brother to anyone because it didn't matter. Sam wasn't going to be staying long enough for it to matter. 

Dean led Sam to his usual table towards the back; the same place AlpSam sat himself when he'd appeared. Sam stared into his glass, at the table, around the bar and the people. When Lucinda came up to see if they wanted anything, Sam blushed and cut his eyes to Dean, deferring to him, so Dean ordered fries. Kathy came and refilled Sam's coke, asked Dean if he wanted another beer with ice-cold eyes fixed on Sam the entire time. Sam did his best to hide behind his hair. Julia stared holes in Sam from across the bar…Dean wasn't sure if she was admiring or condemning.

Miles came around later with the fries. He asked Sam if he could get him anything else, Sam asked about the small grilled chicken salad. He turned his face up to Miles. "Is it fresh? I mean, I just…." Sam trailed off, his eyes on Dean. Dean watched Sam try not to curl with embarrassment. He'd plainly picked up on everyone's unfriendly vibes. They weren't subtle, these people who'd decided Dean was their friend.

Dean was a good brother, so he tried to dig Sam out of the hole he obviously felt he'd dug. "What Sam means is, bars and salads don’t go together in our—his experience."

Miles smiled. "Trust me, Sam, the salad's fresh. I personally guarantee it. I kind of think it's the best thing on the menu and not just because I make 'em." Miles smile grew wider and warmer and Sam, like everyone else in the universe, couldn't keep from smiling back at Miles. Dean looked on, warming himself with the sight of Sam's dimples and teeth and the way his lips curled in the corners—

Dean sighed inside. Dean glanced at Miles and Miles gave him a look that edged on pity, and all Dean could do was sit there and feel like yeah, he kind of deserved that look. Sam looked from Miles to Dean and blushed. He dropped his eyes to the table and stammered, "Yeah, okay. Thanks. Thank you."

Miles walked away and Sam sighed. "I get it. Why you’re here. Everyone really…they like you. Miles, he seems…real nice. Really. Very nice."

"Yeah. He is," Dean said. He watched Miles head into the back. It figured the one who'd be the nicest to Sam—or nice at all—was Miles. 

"He seems…" Sam hesitated, his eyes everywhere but on Dean, and his cheeks went redder and redder as he talked. "I think he likes you. Like, a lot. So maybe you. It's okay. I mean, I don’t have a right to…interfere."

Dean grabbed a handful of fries and chewed like he was getting paid for it, swallowed and said, "Dude, you're an idiot."

 

 

That night, Sam paced the floor of the studio apartment, which was unbelievably annoying because it was a tiny place that barely fit Dean, let alone his Sasquatch of a brother. His looming, brooding Sasquatch of a brother. "Dean, I know you think you like it here, but this kind of life—it isn’t for you. You know you're not made to stall in one place. You should—we should—we need to get back on the road, you know, the family business thing. You should…come back with me."

Hell, no. What, he should wait around until Sam got tired of him again? Until it was leave or be left behind, again? "Sam, I know it doesn't look like it to you, but I like what I got here, I'm not so anxious to pick up stakes again. I'm putting together a life here, y'know?"

Sam spread his arms, nearly touching the walls on both sides. His look said plenty, and Dean had to look away. "Dean," Sam said, "You're working a minimum wage job and you're living in a _motel room."_

Funny, how much that hurt, Dean thought. Funny how much what Sam thought still mattered to him. "It's a _studio apartment,_ dude— and, and, I'm thinking of hunting again, been thinking about it a lot. Only I'd have a home base, a place to come back to, like Caleb and Travis and...and… it'll be just like it used to be, before you—"

"You don’t have to give anything up, you understand? I didn't know this meant that much to you, sorry. Whatever you found here, you don’t have to give it up. I don’t want you to. I…I can work around this. Or." Sam sighed and his circles around the tiny studio grew smaller, tighter, until he finally stopped, hands clenched at his sides. "I'm sorry. Give me a chance. You want it. We both want it. _I_ want it."

"Sam…" Sam could have been talking about life in Smithville, but somehow Dean doubted it. Sam's eyes were glassy, that way they went when the waterworks were about to start and Dean didn't want that—it'd be Bambi's mother all over again. 

"I mean it. _Please._ Let me."

Dean stared at him, just stared until Sam fidgeted and flushed. He looked away from Dean, and Dean said, "I can tell if you don’t mean it. Words don’t mean anything—I've spent weeks learning how true that is." Dean laughed bitterly. "I also spent weeks learning that I really don't care, that I'm that weak I'll take it gratefully, so." He shrugged.

Sam grabbed him by the collar and pulled him around, his eyes were blazing, his face red. "God _damn,_ you piss me off. I want you—for myself, okay, not for you." He faltered and the fire left his eyes a bit and he let go of Dean. "Wait, that's not, you know what I mean—I mean," his hands were flailing for an invisible purchase and his forehead wrinkled, and suddenly, he looked vastly different from the possessive, self-assured person who'd tackled Dean. It was that floundering that reassured Dean, let him know….

"Sammy?"

Sam face cracked wide open with hope, "Yeah?"

"You can shut up now. Or kiss me; I'd be okay with that, too."

Sam rolled his eyes but grinned. "Yeah? Okay." Dean leaned close, taking his time, giving Sam time, to leave, stop him—punch him. Dean kept his eyes closed and waited for whatever was going to happen next. He wasn't prepared for how soft Sam's hands were against his cheeks, how big—the way they cradled his chin, and the way Sam's fingers stroked the corners of his eyes. Sam's mouth was soft, but thorough; the way he worked Dean's mouth open, the way his tongue slid inside and the way he pressed forward, trying to line himself up with Dean, like he was trying to melt into every angle of Dean's body. They fit everywhere, Sam between Dean's spread legs like pieces of a puzzle finally locked in place. Sam's heat warming Dean, Dean's heat making Sam moan and rock gently against his dick, slow, gentle pulses that let Dean feel it, learn how to rock back the way Sam liked. He slid his hand down the back of Sam's jeans, trapping Sam between his dick and his hand. Dean drank up the little snuffling moans Sam breathed into his ear. 

It was different. It was better—no, it was _incredible._ It was just what Dean had chased all his life, everything he'd known he'd never have. Not in life. Not in his dreams.

"Fuck, Dean—I—"

Dean could feel Sam's mouth forming the word, he could hear the word start to roll over Sam's tongue, and he stopped him with a kiss. Dean knew from experience how being doped up on sex made you blurt some pretty stupid stuff, and there was no way he could hear it and not fall even deeper. Dean was good right now—he was great.

=+=

His friends cried when Dean left, and Dean was surprised at their response to his so-long. It had only been a couple of months but they acted like they'd known him all his life. It was weird…a little eerie. Though there was a not-so-deeply hidden part of him reveled in it, the way they hugged him and cried, even big, tough Carl. Hell, even the motel owner's eyes moistened, but Dean figured that was probably the loss of his weekly rent. Miles held onto Dean for a long time when Dean handed him to keys to the Chevelle. Sam wasn't there so Dean held right back, hands fisted in Miles' shirt, inhaling him, leaning into the big solid frame of him and feeling bad how it just made him want to hold Sammy more.

Miles finally drew back. "I thought he wasn't good for you at first. All I saw was you loving him and him eating it up and giving nothing back."

Dean nodded. To a certain extent, it was a fair assessment of both relationships. Not that being a monster's version of take-out exactly qualified as a relationship, but in general terms…. 

"But now I see him, and man, he loves you, like—so much. I wish…I hope I can find someone like that someday, someone who looks at me like I'm their whole world."

Dean looked up, puzzled. "Who, _Sam?_ Sam doesn't—I love him, but Sam just—he's very good to me. Too good, sometimes."

"You're such a fucking asshole, Smith."

"Dude, I'm beginning to think my name's Asshole Smith."

"Then stop being one. Open your eyes, man. He _loves_ you." 

Sam came around the corner and Dean looked, really _looked,_ instead of just checking to see where Sam was in relation to him. Looked with eyes wide open and without his own spin on everything. It seemed to be true. Sam's face lit up when he saw Dean and he smiled. It was quick, and Sam looked a little embarrassed when he saw Dean, like he had to hide that feeling, but he was still smiling when he came up to Dean. "We're packed, you ready?" He held the keys out to Dean with a small smile. 

Dean held his hands up. "Hey, how 'bout you drive, Sam. I'm just gonna…soak it in."

Sam beamed like Dean had just given him a kidney—maybe two—and loped off towards the car. Dean watched him run, smiling, and turned to Miles. Miles was watching him like…well, a lot like he watched Sam. Miles shook his head, punched Dean in the shoulder. "Keep in touch man. No excuse not to, right? And remember what I said." 

Dean nodded and gave Miles one last dude-hug before following Sammy to the car, his real car. His beautiful, gleaming, dangerous car. Dean stroked her sun-warmed flank…totally did not linger, or sigh, or tear up for a second. He opened the door, slid inside, and tension he hadn't felt before eased out of his muscles. He turned to his brother. "Where to, Sam?" he asked.

"I thought we'd head, I don’t know, Caleb's? Maybe Jim's? Or just kind of take our time, see what's what? Get you back in the swing of things?"

"Bitch, I never lost the swing."

Sam grinned at him. "Oh, I know that, you swung it quite well." He gave Dean a kind of awkward leer, and Dean tried his best not to break into laughter. 

"Sammy, Sammy," Dean said, "what the hell does that even mean?"

"Shut up, I don't know." Sam's cheeks and nose went red and Dean let go of the laugh that threatened to choke him. 

"Dude," he managed to gasp out between laughs. "You suck at sex talk."

"Oh, shut up. You suck. I mean….just shut up."

Dean grinned at Sam, leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes and drifted off into the warm, cottony hold of sleep, with Sam warm and solid and safe, next to him.

~fin~


End file.
